The Ballad of Sam Hill

I have easily the best friends in the world. I know this, because I've never got to play the Henry Lawson drinking game in other company, all while having my life 'workshopped' by someone who couldn't understand how it was not entirely complimentary to tell me I'd 'turned out well'.

Happily, I recorded some of what turned out to be a rather epic ballad...

It was a blue September, a morning haze.

With a bloody fist wrapped in a bandage I waited. 
There was not much food. 
A night on the piss had left me in a daze. 
The sunrise was orange. It wasn't breaking my malaise.

But I had mates all round me, and loyalty abounded.

Given the crash in the 30s he was out on the street. No where to call home.

And he was tired. 
A lot of years had passed. And he just didn't know what to do anymore.
The sun would rise. The sun would set, and he would still be there. Just Sam Hill. 

So Sam Hill sat down on the step of the sheering shed and pulled out his rusty old harmonica and played a tune. 

Then he went back into the woolshed and he sheered him some sheep.  
Because that's what men do. 
It was a heavy fleece that season...

How very Leonard Shelby of you

I recently had coffee with my friend Chris, who had the misfortune to attend a conference on the Gold Coast in the midst of Schoolies. The streets lined with drunken 17 year olds, it was not the tropical getaway that might be envisioned. 

Schoolies is an opportunity for the kids to cut loose. And good on them. We all know someone who has woken up missing half an eyebrow because they passed out before their friends. I know people who've gotten pierced or inked after several too many drinks. Tattoo artists must love the ridiculous things drunk people decide to mark on their bodies. Such as the boy Chris saw at the coast who had tattooed on his shoulder "Schoolies 08". 

Evidently it had been such a big week for this guy that without a permanent reminder he may have forgotten he'd been there. 

He's yelling at possums

My brother is in town for a visit. Last night he went out drinking with some old school friends. Several hours later I received a phone call, to see if I was awake. Having answered the phone I did happen to be awake, and agreed to drive into the city to pick him up. This is because I am an excellent sibling. And because Zeb really loves nothing more than a midnight spin.

On the return trip my brother, with the logic of the inebriated, queried whether I really was awake and whether I had been before said phone call. After we arrived home I changed back into my pajamas and then realised that the front door had been left wide open. I chalked this up to forgetfulness, having previously lived with two guys who were incredibly lax about home security (we once had to have a house meeting listing reasons it was a top idea to at least close the front door).

When I went to lock up I discovered my brother standing in the front yard staring into the distance. I also heard some distant barking. When I asked what was going on he explained "I'm just waiting for Zeb. He's yelling at possums".